Milk, Tea, and Heads in the Fridge
by Musicnutt
Summary: My various minifills from Sherlockbbc fic. Ratings range from K-M depending. Warnings for possible triggers, drug use, rampant crack, and overall gayness.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Seasonal Allergies  
>Rating: pg<br>Warnings: fluff? possible choking on fluff balls?  
>Summary: mini-fill for sherlockbbc_fic prompt - John is a wercat and trasforms at the most inoportune times.<p>

/

"Really, John, this is most inconvenient." Sherlock grumbled, shaking the loose asphalt from the wrinkled pair of jeans. The small bulge in the discarded oatmeal jumper near his feet flailed about as if possessed by a particularly clumsy ghost.

"Mwaooh~" it warbled fretfully. The detective released a put-upon sigh and scooped up the squirming pile of cableknit.

"I mean, really!" He shoved a searching hand down the mouth of the jumper. "How am I supposed to work if you change into a useless ball of fur everytime your sneeze? OUCH!" the detective yelped, whipping his hand out of bundle, a fluffy orange tabby kitten attached to his finger like a fish on a hook. The detective shook the angry furball off, and nursed his wound.

"John! That was completely uncalled for!" The kitten, who had landed safely on the ground, glared up at him, completely offended.

"Mrrowrr!"

"I'm well aware that you can't control the seasons or the flowers, but how am I supposed to work, John?" He whined, aggrieved.

The kitten seemed to shrink in on itself, embarrassed and rather hurt. It mewled pitifully, hung its head, and began to slink off down the alley for the long trek home.

"Oh, come back here you idiot!" Sherlock snapped as he folded up John's clothes. "You're in no condition to go by yourself. Either the dogs will get you, or some hapless child will snatch you up to bring home to Mummy." Tucking the clothes under his arm, beneath his coat, Sherlock stalked over and plucked the tiny kitten up by his scruff. He held John up to his face and sighed.

"You might as well come along. Perhaps your perspective will be of use. If not you can at least crawl into small places and fetch things for me." The kitten took a half-hearted swat at the detective's nose before Sherlock buttoned up his coat and tucked John into the space between his scarf and lapels.

For a moment, they made a rather amusing picture: The tall imposing detective with a disembodied kitten's head peeking out of his chest. But neither put even a fleeting thought to it.

Sherlock straightened his clothes, gave John a light pat on his fluffy little head...

and then they were off.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Rambo in an Oatmeal Jumper  
>Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any incarnations of him. (weeps in a dark corner)<br>Rating: pg  
>Warnings: implied violence, PTSD relapse<br>Summary: minifill for sherlockbbc_fic prompt - For some reason, Sherlock and John are arrested by the Yard. However, when they try to put John in a holding cell, he has a flashback to his time as a POW and immediately goes into soldier mode, beating the crap out the surprised Yarders as he escapes custody.

/

When Lestrade woke up, he was fairly convinced he had been hit by a truck.

EVERYTHING hurt. And he couldn't remember why.

"About time you woke up, Lestrade! Hurry up and let me out! I need to find John!"

The DI pushed himself into a sitting position (how had he ended up on the floor?) with a groan as his body whined in protest. His face felt swollen and was throbbing horribly.

Lestrade squinted trying to focus on his surroundings.

There were bodies. Everywhere.

"What the bloody hell happened?"

The entire Yard looked like a tornado had done a tango and a tapdance inside it. Desks were overturned. Doors kicked in (or was it out). And his people strewn about like discarded litter (Donovan lay prone near the exit like an abandoned ragdoll. Dimmock had been dragged into the cell next to Sherlock. Anderson appeared to have been thrown through a wall) some just beginning to stir.

Lestrade leaped to his feet and frantically checked for pulses. Sherlock kicked at the cell bars in frustration, his broken wrist, injured during the arrest (another damn ASBO), the only thing keeping him from picking his handcuffs.

"I TOLD you morons not to pin him down! Now look what you've done! Let me out! NOW!"

Lestrade whirled on him furious and horrified.

"What the fuck happened, Sherlock!"

"Captain John Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corp." The detective muttered grimly. "Lost in a flashback of Afghanistan. And he's running loose in London with enough artillary to supply a platoon."

"What!"

Sherlock banged his head against the metal bars and snarled.

"He raided the evidence locker and took all of the confiscated firearms, ammunition, and knives, along with some stolen body armor. He took your billy stick too."

Lestrade choked in horror as he fumbled with the lock.

"How long has he been gone?"

"An hour."

"Fuck!"


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Union Jack  
>Disclaimer: seriously? do you think I own the awesomeness of Holmes?<br>Rating: T  
>Pairing: HW  
>Warnings: <strong>implied gay sexing<strong>; established relationship; pillow abuse  
>Summary: fill for sherlockbbc_fic prompt - John fucks Sherlock so hard some nights, that he has to bite down on his pillow to avoid screaming (in pleasure) and scaring Mrs Hudson in the flat below.<p>

/

It's after the sixth one that John finally has to ask.

"Sherlock, why are you making weird faces at the telly? It's not even on."

The consulting detective scowled at him from his knee-hugging crouch in the armchair.

"I'm not making faces. I'm attempting to dislodge drebris from between my first and second mandibular premolars."

"You have food stuck in your teeth?"

"Thank you for paraphrasing what I said." It was amazing that he didn't choke on the sarcasm. "But you're wrong."

"Huh?"

"It's not food."

John sighed wearily. An experiment, of course.

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything. It's what YOU did!"

"What did I have to do with anything?"

Sherlock's face tinted a curious shade of pink.

"You are a very good shag. Especially last night."

The silence was deafening. John tried to follow this jump in the tracks fumbling all the way.

"...er, thankyou? But how does my shagging you have to do with-?"

"You'r too good at it. That is why I have debris between my teeth."

"What-?" John sputtered. Sherlock responded by throwing the Union Jack pillow at him, hitting the doctor in the face.

He plucked it off indignantly, but his eye was caught on a peculiar tear in the stitching. It looked like-

"Sherlock, why are there bite marks in this pillow?"

Sherlock just stared at him. John sat there looking between the ruined pillow and his roommate for about a minute before an image flickered in his mind's eye.

Last night. Sherlock bent over the sofa. Fingers digging into the cushions. Face planted in the pillow, so Mrs. Hudson and her girls didn't hear them as he came like a freight train.

"...Oh."

"Yes."

John's face was burning.

"Ah, um. I see." He forced himself to meet those cat-like eyes with what little dignity he had left.

"So, do you, er, want help with, uh..." He motioned at his mouth. Sherlock sighed with relief and bounced out of the chair to loom over him expectantly.

"Yes, much obliged."


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Hello~Doctor  
>Disclaimer: Anderson must have lowered your IQ if you think I own Sherlock.<br>Rating: T  
>Warnings: suggestive language, suggested beastiality, awkwardness galore<br>Summary: fill for sherlockbbc_fic prompt: John seemed awfully distracted by that cat in TGG. I was thinking...Dr. Doolittle crossover. John Watson can hear animals speak, but no one else can.

Then I just mixed in a little crack...Poor John.  
>

There were days when John just hated everything in the universe.

_(Hell~o, Sexy.)__  
><em>  
>"Sorry, I don't really swing that way."<p>

[What's a lovely like you doing in a place like this?]**  
><strong>  
>"Please stop kneading my crotch."<p>

{You make me so hot-}

"Get off my damn leg!"

_**/Want to come back to my place?/**__**  
><strong>_  
>"Honestly, I really don't think it would work out between us."<p>

"John, why are you talking to that goldfish?"

/

Yeah. I did.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Charliee

Disclaimer: this is so tedious. don't own. seriously.  
>Rating: T<br>Warning: drug use, rampant crack. John whumping  
>Summary: fill for sherlockbbc_fic prompt - Pink, fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows. Sherlock BBC X Charlie the Unicorn<p>

/

After hours of searching, Sherlock finally found him laying in an alley. The man was curled in on himself, hands clamped over his ears and whimpering helplessly.

"No! Nooo!"

"John, you have to calm down! Everything's fine now." Sherlock gently tried to peel the doctor's hands away from his head. John's hands were bruised and scuffed. He had put up a good fight, but Sherlock could tell from the footprints in the mud that there had been multiple attackers. Five or more. Gang activity?

"I'm here, John. It's okay." He whispered, gritting his teeth against the bitter bile of rage boiling beneath his skin. When he found those-

John moaned in mortal agony, his head lolling back and revealing a tiny puncture wound in his neck. His pupils were so dilated, the irises were merely hair-thin rings of blue around unseeing black pits. Drugged and mugged. Hallucinating. A very bad trip. LSD?

Sherlock swore and fished his phone out of his pocket, dialing for an ambulance.

"Please. Stop! I'm not-..."

"Shh. It's alright, John. Stay with me." The detective tried to soothe the drugged man, but he would not be silenced.

"I'm not-not Charlie! My name's not Charlie!"

"Of course it's not. Your name is John. John. Remember? And I'm Sherlock-"

Suddenly John burst into howls of grief and tried to bury his face in his friends chest.

"My kidney!"

"John?"

"They took! They took my kidney! They took it!"

"Who, John?" Sherlock asked, calmly playing along, knowing better than to make counter-arguments with a man doped on acid. "Who took your kidney?"

"The unicorns! The bloody unicorns and their CANDY!" John sobbed into the thick, expensive wool. "I don't want the mountain, Sherlock!"

He carefully wound his boney arms around his distraught flatmate in what he hoped was a calming embrace, making sure to keep John's face tucked into his shoulder. As Sherlock rubbing soothing circles on the doctor's back, sirens wailed in the distance. Help was coming.

"I don't want to be a unicorn, Sherlock."

"I wouldn't want to be one either, John."


	6. Chapter 6

Title: White

Disclaimer: Really? Do I have to say it? do not own  
>Rating: T?<br>Warning: suicide attempt, Stockholm syndrome, memory loss  
>Pairing: implied SherlockJohn, John/Jim  
>Summary: fill for sherlockbbc_fic prompt - Jim Moriarty kidnaps John and tries to seduce him. Just a little darker.<p>

/

He wakes up in a white room.

He tears at the walls, desperately seeking a weakness, a crack. Anything. The walls are smooth and soft like the cushions on the exam tables at clinic.

The ceiling is a mile away. No visible cameras (doesn't mean there aren't any) The floor is smooth seamless tile. The door-OH! There's a door! And a door crack!.

If only his nails were longer. If only there were hinges or knobs to break. But no. There is only a door. Solid. Smooth. White.

He sits in front of the door. Waiting. Patient.

He will get out. He WILL escape.

Even if he doesn't, Sherlock must be searching for him. He-

He wakes up in a white room.

/

He wakes up in a white room.

The Room is always silent. The walls are padded, muffling even the sound of his breath. Even the papery scrubs he wears (white) barely make a sound.

The only sounds he ever hears are in his dreams. The voice is soft, sibilant. Like a snake's lullaby. When he wakes there is no one there. When he calls, pleads, cries, no one answers.

He screams to fill his own head. To scrape out the white noise of the white lights humming loftily in the white ceiling.

He wakes up with a burning throat and the echo of the Voice in his head.

"If a man screams in a white room with no one around to hear him, does he make a sound?"

Moriarty! It is him, isn't it? Not just his ears playing tricks? Where is-

He wakes up in a white room.

/

He wakes up in a white room.

He feels full, but can't remember eating. He almost remembers it's taste. It's like a dream, so fleeting.

Is he even awake?

He can almost feel the cold metal spoon in his mouth. Impressions of fingers ghost along his jaw.

How long has it been since someone has touched him? How long has he be-

He wakes up in a white room.

/

He wakes up in a white room.

The air is scentless. Not even the chemical sting of cleaners. Nothing. Just recycled air. Cold. Stale. But he can remember a scent.

It had been minty. A sharp shock to his nose in all of this blandness (white).

It had been wonderful. He wants it. Just once more.

Anything but this nothingness. Please-

He wakes up in a white room.

/

He wakes up in a white room.

White. White. White. White. He's so tire of WHITE.

So he makes red.

And it is glorious. Bright red. Gorgeous red. Splattered over that horrible white.

It's warm to the touch. It's coppery to the taste. It makes the most wonderful wet sounds. It smells like life.

And it hurts. It hurts. He FEELS! And it's so-

He wakes up in a white room.

But this time

there is Blue

/

He wakes up in a white room.

He can't remember how long he's been here.

Hours. Days. Months. Years. He's lost count.

In this room. This retina-searing white room. There's no escape. Solid walls (white). No windows. Drain in the floor (white). One door.

Oh. The Door. Long. Narrow. No handle. Clinical. White. Like bleached bone.

It never opens when he's awake. He doesn't know how many times he's woken up on the tile floor (white) without memory of slumber. How long? He never knows.

It's like waking into a dream.

But when he wakes, HE is there, as if spoke into existence from nothing.

Blue. That is the color of HIM. Blue is the soft whisper in his ear. Blue is the cool touch on his skin. Blue is the food fed to him in infrequent intervals. Blue is the smell of expensive cologne and explosives. Blue made the red (but it was so beautiful) go away.

Blue is HE.

Blue is the only color in his world.

Blue once meant something else, he thinks, back when white was not his universe. When there were more than two colors in the world.

Blue used to make him feel-

He wakes up in a white room.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Surgeon  
>Rating: T<br>Warnings: PTSD (trigger), hallucinations, murder  
>Summary: Mini fill for Sherlockbbc_fic prompt - "When a doctor does go wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has the nerve, and he has the knowledge"<br>John makes a sacrifice on the altar of his desert demons.

/

His hand is twitching again. It's time.

He pulls on his dull cherry jumper and faded army canvas jacket. He leaves his gun tucked in his pillow. It will not be needed tonight. Not for his purposes.

The dry heat of the desert starts to chafe against his skin. He selects a scalpel(thick handle, solid blade) from the antique surgeon's kit he bartered from a grubby little shop on the outskirts of London. It's cold weight in his palm soothes the tremors for but a moment.

But it does not keep the voices at bay. They hiss and snap at his heels as he leaves his tiny flat.

/...aston-/

His leg smarts impatiently as he descends the stairs. Psychosomatic, his former (useless)therapist had told him. "It's all in your head."

Yes, it is. All in his head. The pain. The heat. The voices. The nightmares. It's not real, but it is.

/..Watson../

A bullet pierces the sand at his feet, the shot rings in his ears. The voices are getting louder; grating in his skull. He reaches the back door of the complex and nearly breaks the handle in his desperation to escape.

London's cold air bites through his clothes, but it does nothing to fend off the cloying, stifling heat in his brain, on his skin. The wind chases him down the street and through the back alleys, feeding the voices that have now begun to scream from the mouths of his fallen brethren.

/Watson!/

His hand is positively vibrating in his pocket, knuckles clenched tight on the skin-warmed metal of his salvation. There is a hot phantom slickness between his fingers. The ground rumbles beneath his feet as rockets explode in the distance, the sand around him shivers like a living creature.

His leg gives out on him in an alley darkened by the shadow of an abandoned building. Their voices ring at a fever pitch, the heat scalds his flesh, his hand starts to warp the metal. He can't breathe!

/JOHN-/

"Sir?" A hushed voice slices through the cacophony of his mind like a cold blade. "Are you alright?"

Words tumble from his lips unbidden. "My leg. I can't, could you possibly-" come closer? Closer. I need-

"Oh! Of course!" and the trap snaps shut.

-your life

His hand is strong and steady as he cuts off blood flow to the brain. Once consciousness slips from the man's grasp (young, fit, and far too kind) he sinks the blade through cloth and dermal layers to pierce muscle.

Snicker-snack and the fever recedes, the warm blood cooling the searing heat in his brain. His hands are deft and carve the body in textbook diagrams. With every organ dissected and every muscle filleted, his shattered mind pieces itself back together.

At last the heart spills its crimson treasure as he sacrifices this life to his desert demons.

The voices calm, sated by the texture of real blood and the odor of death. The phantoms and ghosts of sensation are replaced with the real thing, and his mind clears like blue skies in spring. The sand blows away with the twilight breeze.

The air is cool. The blood is warm. And John can breathe again.

He cleans his hands and utensil on his jacket and then pulls the garment inside out. The stains from his reversible army jacket hide comfortably in the dull crimson wool of his jumper. The scalpel slides home in his pocket awaiting a good cleaning before returning to sleep its velvet bed.

He walks home surrounded by the masses, wearing some bloke's life under his jacket, on his skin.

His hand is still. His mind is clear and cool. His leg supports him like a brother as his shoes tap against solid concrete.

And the voices are wonderfully silent.

He sleeps that night free from the desert fever.

Just for tonight.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Between Life and Death  
>Disclaimer: Nope, it's not mine.<br>Rating: PG  
>Warnings: Slashy<br>Pairings: Life/Death, John/Sherlock, Space/Time, Energy/Force  
>Summary: Sherlockbbc-fic Prompt fill – Sherlock is Death, John is Life<br>First real supernaturally fic.

/

They were not gods. In fact, even he, as Death, does not truly know what they are.

What Death does know is that they are Eternity's children. Within her womb they are confined. Without her they cannot exist. They love, fear, and hate her in turn, the way all who are finite regard the untouchable infinite.

There is no Father of which Death is aware of. Even if there was, it would not matter.

The First Child is Space. Space is, in reality, the one closest to Mother Eternity in form and composition. Vast, all encompassing, and a pompous arse. But even Space is finite; a fact that Death never fails to remind him of.

The Second Child is Time. Time fears Eternity the most on pure principle. He is the tangible opposite of her in every way. Time, the graying hourglass keeper, hates Death because his existence is the constant reminder of what will be. The End is what Time fears. His only solace is in Space, The First. The two are disgustingly fond of each other.

The middle children are much less interesting.

The Third Child is Energy. The Fourth Child is Force. The Fifth Child is Mass. Energy and Force are always caught up in each other, with little interest in their other siblings. Mass is forever thinking too much of himself, with all of his elements and such. He always forgets that he is forever dependent upon Energy and Force. The exclusive trio have never held much interest for Death, so he does not bother with them.

As the youngest Child, Death has had little to do with his older siblings. They are dull and set deep in their ruts, following the paths carved for them by Eternity. There was only one exception.

Life

The Sixth Child is Life. Life was creative and fascinating. Constantly new and changing, Death could never quite pin him down.

He was the first being Death had ever seen. When Death, the Seventh Child, was born, cold and pale and emaciated, Life was there, prepared to pass on the gauntlet. Stock ready to change hands.

Life was beautiful. His visage always in a constant flux between birth and death. Life once appeared to Death as a child. As an old man. As a limber adult. His hair would shine, bright and pure like the sun or dim and dusty like flax and fertile earth. His eyes were unfathomably deep, like the untouchable height of the sky in summertime, or the unplumbable depths of the nutrient-rich ocean.

Loved by all, Life had been Death's bane. Death had been so jealous of his older brother, he had _despised_ him. As a 'youth' Death had regarded Life as a rival to be beaten. Overcome and usurp. Destroy.

Back and forth they had fought, Death determined to snuff out Life. Until one day, he realized that they were not so much fighting but dancing. Life had always understood their roles. Life had been leading Death in a violent, but patient tango. Over the years, it became a gentle waltz. Their rivalry became a partnership.

Life would walk with Death on the edge of the world for a few moments and a few eons. They would speak of few and many things of no and great import. They would watch as Time stirred the universe within Space, bantering over the differing variables exhibited, critiquing each other's work, and learning from each other. Life Gave. Death Took.

Life is his counter. His partner. His brother. His friend.

But as close as they walk together, Death can never touch Life.

Not without Taking him.

Perhaps that's why he follows his brother to earth as a human.

As Sherlock Holmes he can watch their work from the ground level, on the micro scale.

As Sherlock Holmes he can _touch_ Life without Taking him.

They walk together as they always have, and Sherlock Holmes holds John Watson's hand.


End file.
